


Together, We'll Give Them Hell

by Akiko_Natsuko



Series: Together, We'll Give Them Hell [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: Imprisoned and injured, the unlikeliest allies can come together. In the past. In a different lifetime, Jack would never even have considered taking that hand. Soldier 76 didn’t hesitate, clasping Hanzo’s hand.
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Series: Together, We'll Give Them Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689037
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	Together, We'll Give Them Hell

**Author's Note:**

> For the Rarepairs Jack Morrison day on Twitter. Writing is proving difficult at the moment, but I wanted to participate.
> 
> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB).

Soldier 76 cursed as he was shoved out of the Dropship, and unable to catch himself with his arms bound so tightly, he fell to his knees on the tarmac. It hurt, the impact jostling the injuries that had been inflicted during his capture and short – so far – imprisonment, and he couldn’t stop himself from grunting as they all seemed to come alive at once, each vying to be the most painful. He healed fast. In fact, if he focused, he could already feel the itch of healing skin around some of them, but he hadn’t been given a chance to recover from each beating, and right now he felt every bit his age and more. They had only been too happy to ‘punish’ the man who had been a thorn in their side for months, and he was glad that they hadn’t yet connected the dots as to who he had been, as he could just imagine what they would do if they knew they had Jack Morrison in their grasp.

He was still reeling from the pain when he was hauled to his feet and pushed forward. Snarling, pain forgotten in favour of the ever-present anger, he twisted and with no other weapon at hand he used his upper body as a battering ram. The Talon agents were caught off guard, lulled by his quiet during the flight – because, he hadn’t liked his odds and hadn’t fancied crash landing even if he was the person most likely to survive the impact; and the fact that they were back on their own turf. A base that he didn’t recognise, despite the long hours spent memorising every shred of intel he’d been able to find, looming in the distance. Either way, his first blow, knocked the two try to drag him forward away, and moving with the motion, he lashed out with his foot, grateful to Gabriel for pounding these lessons into him if nothing more as the left-hand man crumbled with an agonised cry.

There was a roaring sound in his ears, more than fury, more than determination. A blood lust that he couldn’t hold back, and he steadied himself, before preparing to lunge once more, eyes flicking around in search of something, anything that would free his hands. If he just had his hands free, he…

Agony.

Not the throbbing, burn of his existing wounds, but something sharper and all-consuming exploded in several places across his body, and he reared back. His mind taking a moment to register the sound of shots fired above the roaring in his ears, and to make sense of the agony spreading through his body, realisation dawning just as his legs gave way beneath him, sending him crashing back to the tarmac. This time, he had no thought of catching himself. No thought of fighting. The pain was overwhelming, his breath catching, and blood filling his mouth.

_They’ve killed me…?_

Death didn’t frighten him. Not, even dying alone, as he had realised from the moment, he had crawled out of Zurich that was the fate that awaited him. The only possible end to the bloody path he had set for himself.

But not like this.

Not here, and now.

Not as a prisoner, bound and helpless.

Gritting his teeth, he seized hold of that thought and lifted his head, which he didn’t even remember falling against his chest, and glared through blurring eyes as the Talon Agents swarmed him. It was nothing more than empty defiance, and he couldn’t even struggle as he was wrenched upwards by half a dozen hands, vision blurring and going black for a moment, as fingers found the gunshot wounds and pressed down maliciously. He might have screamed then, the sound wrenched from him against will, but he wasn’t sure, because the roaring sound was back this time. Not fury this time, but pain, his heart pounding in his chest, as he felt the blood soaking into his clothes…

*

He must’ve lost consciousness at some point, waking to find himself being dragged along, legs trailed along the ground behind him. He wasn’t sure whether it was a trick of the dark spots passing in front of his eyes or blood spots that he was seeing left in his wake, having a sinking feeling that it was both. And it was desperation rather than any real hope of finding some way out of his mess, that gave him the strength to lift his head. Catching a fleeting glimpse of doors, and plain grey walls leading off in other directions, before a sharp kick to his side had him flinching, body seizing up at the pain as laughter spread through the group dragging him along. Mocking, and he endured a dozen more kicks and blows – none hard enough to do any real damage, but brutal on top of everything else. He was teetering, looming on the edge of unconsciousness and something deeper, and darker when they came to an abrupt halt.

Distantly he registered the sound of an electronic lock being disengaged. Unable to focus enough to get an idea of what type, not that it really mattered as they had been careful to strip him of anything he could use as a tool or weapon. That was followed, by the sound of physical locks and bolts being opened and drawn back. _They’re really not taking any chances,_ he thought, half-tempted to point out that it wasn’t necessary.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

He knew his body, could feel it trying desperately to repair the damage that had been done – that was still being done, he amended taking another kick to the side that left him doubled over. Or maybe he had been doubled over before, he wasn’t sure anymore, blood speckling his lips as he choked on a breath.

_I’m not getting out of this…_

He was being lifted again, hauled upright, and he wondered dizzily if they intended to make him walk inside. If so, they were going to be disappointed, as he couldn’t even get his legs to move into a position to catch him, and he wondered if this was going to be it, were they going to shove him forward, and let the impact finish him off. He held his breath, waiting for the push. For the impact and the pain that would follow, wondering if he would even be able to feel it in the sea of agony that he was drifting in at the moment. It would be a disappointing death for everyone.

A disappointing death…

Blood loss and pain must be scrambling his mind worse than he thought because he was seized by a burning, almost hysterical need to laugh. He’d survived the Crisis, the numerous assassination attempts during his tenure as Strike Commander, hell he’d even survived Overwatch and Zurich coming down on his head, and various missions ever since…and he was going to die here, like this, in a pool of his own blood and alone.

Alone…

_Alone…._

That was what terrified him. It always had, but before there had always been people around him. Ana. Gabriel. The Strike Team. A family of his own making destroyed and lost by his own hands…and now he was alone. The urge to laugh vanished, twisting into something closer to a sob, and he almost missed the chuckle near his ear, before a hand in the middle of his back shoved him forwards.

For a moment, he seemed to catch himself, but even SEP strength wasn’t enough to fight this and then he was falling, toppling forward with no means to save himself from the impact. The ground was rushing up to meet him, and he tried to brace himself as best he could, only to jerk to a halt barely a foot from the ground, held aloft by a hand gripping the restraints around his arms. It burned in a different way, putting pressure on every single wound at once as he dangled there, helpless, and caught on the whim of his captors. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, tasting fresh blood on his tongue and almost choking on it, as he swayed, dizzied and disorientated as he was buffeted from all sides by rough hands and feet until he had no idea which way was up or down.

Then his head was being hauled back, fingers buried deep in his hair until he couldn’t breathe. Faces were looming over him, but he couldn’t make out the details, shadows spreading across his vision until all he had was sound and sensation. Pain and a growing desperate need to breathe. Something moist landed on his face. _Tears?_ No…there was no one to cry for him anymore, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, not even as he watched the news, miles away as his family, his life and everything and everyone be buried.

He couldn’t understand, couldn’t focus… couldn’t breathe…

He was barely aware of being released and shoved upright. Of hands gripping him and dragging him forward, through a doorway into a poorly lit cell beyond. He stirred a little when he was dropped unceremoniously on the ground, not from a height – a tiny drop of mercy – consciousness fading as he heard footsteps moving back.

“Some company for you…” They weren’t talking to him, or at least he didn’t think they were, and he tried to focus just a little, jerking as a foot turned him over onto his back, before it moved to rest on his chest for a moment. Lightly, but even that amount of pressure was agonising, drawing a groan from his lips and sending him spiralling, fading away into unconsciousness as the pressure and weight on his chest grew. “At least until he bleeds out.”

_Am…I not…alone?_

****

Six steps. Five Steps.

Hanzo Shimada knew the dimensions of his prison by heart now, but it didn’t stop him from counting as he paced, the numbers giving him something to focus on in the half-darkness. It was all he had. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been trapped in here, hell he wasn’t even sure how long it had been, how many days had trickled by since he’d last been hauled out for another ‘conversation’. He grimaced, still able to feel the slowly healing cuts on his face pulled at the movement – not long enough, he answered himself, before turning to do another lap. He kept himself moving for another half hour or so, counting the minutes in his head, having no idea if they matched the passage of time in the world outside his prison, before moving to the back wall and sinking to the ground facing the door.

The door.

He had hated many things in his life, none more than himself after what he had done to his brother in the name of duty and honour, but that door was coming close. A towering, grey monolith that stood in his way, uncaring, undefeatable. He’d tried everything in the first days, weeks of his imprisonment to get past the door – but there were no hinges on this side, no way through to the locks that kept him trapped inside, just a narrow crack to show him where it was.

To mock him.

The closest he’d ever come was in those first days before they’d learned not to trust him for a second – a lesson they should have known from reading his file and seeing his work. He’d let them haul him out for another conversation, pliant, obedient as he followed them out. His head bowed as though he was finally cowed by their treatment, and confident in their own power they had fallen for it, not enough to let him go, but enough to loosen their grip. Hanzo was still a Shimada for all that he refused to reform or lead the clan, and that second of laxness was all he needed. He’d killed two men that day, turning their own weapons against them before bolting towards freedom. He should have killed them all, stopped them from raising the alarm, but the call of freedom had been stronger than thought at that moment, and it was his undoing.

Hanzo drew in a ragged breath. That memory needled him, mocking him with his failure, and he glared at the door for another moment before closing his eyes. This was his only escape now, meditating and letting his mind go somewhere else, although even that was harder these days. The world beyond this prison becoming dim and distant, its replication fragmented as he found himself starting to forget what things looked and felt like.

He breathed slowly in and out, in and out.

The grey melted away. Slower, to disappear was the uncomfortable weight of the restraint on his left arm, the stifling feeling of being cut off from the Dragons. But he gradually pushed that away too even as his fingers twitched, chasing the sensation of a bowstring.

The image of Hanamura – the one place so profoundly imprinted on his soul that he could find it any moment was just forming, cherry blossoms caught in a distant breeze…and blood on his hands… was just forming, longing and self-loathing intricately bound together when a sound dragged him back to the real world.

His gaze immediately darted to the door as he scrambled to his feet, it wasn’t much of a defence, but he refused to face them on his knees. It didn’t stop him from tensing as he heard each lock, in turn, being opened, counting them as he counted the steps across the prison each day, a desperate clutching at something beyond the emptiness of this room. He must’ve slipped, lost track, his mind dulling after so long because the door opened a lot quicker than he was expecting, and he flinched, only to lift his head when he realised that no one was rushing to grab him but instead remaining clustered around something in the doorway.

There was a gun trained on him, more in warning than anything else he realised, all attention on whatever or rather whoever was in their midst, his eyes widening as he spied the bloodied figure they were dragging in their midst.

“Who…?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, and for a moment, their attention shifted to him, and despite himself, Hanzo flinched. He knew what they could do to him, what damage they could inflict, and yet he could tear his eyes away from their prisoner. There was no one left alive that he cared about enough to be used as leverage against him, so why, bring them to this cell? To him?

The man’s head was hauled back, to the point where it was clear that he couldn’t breathe. Hanzo could see that he was still conscious, eyes rolling and unfocused, blood covering his lips and chin. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, sympathy and fear warring for control, as he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy, especially when they spat on the prisoner. The man blinked, not seeming to understand what had happened, or what was being done to him, Hanzo almost envied him that. Almost, because the man was being hauled upright again, gasping for breath and bringing up more blood as he did so, and then he was being dragged forwards, into the cell, towards Hanzo before being dropped unceremoniously on the ground.

Hanzo inched forwards as most of the agents stepped back, only to pause as his main tormentor stepped forwards. “Some company for you…” The man said, mocking in every word as he lifted a foot and rested it lightly on the man’s chest for a moment, drawing a strangled groan from the prisoner, and grinning, holding Hanzo’s gaze as he bore down for a minute before finally stepping back. “At least until he bleeds out,” he added carelessly as he turned the man onto his back, before stepping back out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Hanzo behind with a dying man.

*

Ignoring the sound of the door being locked again, over and over, Hanzo inched closer to the bleeding figure, tensed for some kind of trick as he tried to work out what game they were playing. Was this to show him what could be done to him if he didn’t start to cooperate? It was possible. It was a tactic his family had used more than once, but Hanzo had seen worse, had done worse – the echo of his brother’s blood looming stronger for a moment – until his fingers brushed a bloody shoulder. The touch grounded him, as did the realisation that the man was still alive at least for the time being.

 _Not for long,_ he thought grimly, eyes sweeping across the man’s body. Awe, followed by horror flooding him at the amount of damage had been inflicted, wondering how he was even still alive. But he was, unconscious, his breathing ragged, whistling between parted, bloody lips, but alive. _Until he bleeds out…_ Hanzo scowled, lifting his head to glare at the door for a moment, long-forgotten defiance roaring to life in his chest, before his gaze dropped back to the man.

“You’re not going to die…”

_I won’t let you…_

****

Death hurt a lot more than Jack had expected.

It was only when he stirred, feeling the cold, hard ground beneath his body and something softer beneath his head, that it started to dawn on him that he wasn’t dead. Not yet a least, because with increasing awareness, came fresh pain. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, all-encompassing, until he forgot all about working out where he was or what had happened, almost forgetting to breathe as he drifted, trying to escape the pain. There was no escape, it flared with each tentative breath and twitch, burrowing deeper, refusing to let him go.

“You’re finally awake.” The unfamiliar voice startled him, making him flinch and gasp in reflexive pain, even as his eyes shot open. He was braced, waiting for the pain to come, feeling a phantom pressure on his chest and half expecting to see his captor looming over him once more as memory stirred. There was movement, a figure slowly coming into view above him and Jack blinked and blinked again… there was no mask, no Talon armour, and nothing familiar against the wary, but concerned eyes that met his. “I was starting to think that I had been too slow.”

_At least until he bleeds out…_

Keeping half an eye on the man and gritting his teeth against the pain that was to come Jack lifted his head, vision turning white, then grey and slowly coming into blurry focus as his entire body protested the effort. He had to blink a dozen times before his vision cleared enough for him to see himself, his muddled mind taken even longer to make sense of what he was seeing. He had been stripped down to his boxers, leaving him no escape from the sight of blood streaked across his skin. Painting a path between each wound that was now bound with what he recognised as a mixture of his own clothes, something blue, and parts of the restraints that had been removed from around his arms. With a flash of gold holding a makeshift bandage in place over what he guessed was the most serious one, considering the deep, throbbing coming from beneath it.

He shifted cautiously. It hurt, and he could tell that while bound the wounds hadn’t been stitched and letting his eyes rove around the otherwise empty room – if it could even be called that – he doubted that it had been possible to clean them properly. Still, the bleeding had stopped, and when closed his eyes and just breathed, he realised that he could feel the itch of healing around each wound, weaker than he could ever remember it before, but still there. Still, working and while it would take time, he knew that this wouldn’t kill him, not yet at least. Although if they came for him again, then all bets were off and he knew men like that, they wouldn’t be content to let him die in peace. They would be back, and once they realised that he wasn’t about to die… he shuddered and groaned in pain as a result.

“I wouldn’t move.” Jack had forgotten about his companion for a moment, looking towards him and then back down at his roughly bandaged body.

“You…” 

“There wasn’t much on hand,” the man replied, taking that as an invitation to move to kneel beside him. Jack eyed him, taking in the fact he had clearly sacrificed part of his own clothing to the bandages, leaving his chest exposed, letting Jack see the scarred skin and the tail end of a tattoo that looked as though it snaked down his left hand. If it did, it was impossible to tell, because the man’s arm was trapped in what looked like it was a metal and nanite glove, but wasn’t, Jack’s eyes tracing the rivets and bolts holding it in place. Dark eyes followed his gaze, and there was a pause before the man reached out and held it with his unrestrained hand, clutching it before meeting Jack’s gaze once more. “They find different ways of wounding us.”

There was a pain in those words that spoke to Jack, and ignoring the advice to stay still, and the pain that ignited the moment he started to move, he pushed himself upright. “Stop!” There were hands on his arms, mindful of the deep bruises from the prior restraints, and as Jack continued to push himself upright, they became more supportive rather than restrictive. “I told you not to move.” Jack was tempted to agree, pressing a trembling hand against his side as he fought just to breathe through the pain.

They remained like that for a while, Jack just focusing on breathing and the warmth of the hands holding him in place, anchoring him in place. “Thank you,” Jack murmured eventually when he could trust his voice to work again, reaching out and deliberately laying his hand on the metal imprisoning the man’s right arm. “You saved my life…”

“I wasn’t about to let them steal something else from me.” Jack lifted an eyebrow at the words, or rather the way it was phrased, and more importantly, the spark of defiance beneath it. _He’s not been defeated,_ it put his thoughts on the tarmac to shame, and he straightened as best he could, leaving his hand in place.

“How long have you been here….” He trailed off, realising he knew nothing more about this man than the fact he had saved him, and that they were trapped in this tiny prison together. It was enough, he supposed, considering the situation but he still looked to the other man, and lifted his other eyebrow in question.

“Hanzo…”

“Shimada…?” Jack asked, speaking a name from another life. Hanzo’s eyes darkened and narrowed, and he let go of Jack’s arms as though burnt as he drew away.

“You know of my family.”

It wasn’t a question, and Jack knew better than to lie at that moment, and he nodded mind racing. Yes, he knew that name and the history behind it. He remembered authorising the mission against the Shimada Clan, remembered the fallout, and the anger in Genji Shimada when he had come to Blackwatch and later Overwatch. He also knew this man, he realised now that his memory had been jolted, had seen his face in the files, and heard his name muttered in the wake of Genji’s rescue.

“I do,” he said finally. “But then I think you probably know mine too.” He lifted his head and met Hanzo’s gaze without hesitation. He was a far cry the man who had stood tall in that cursed blue uniform, scarred and broken by everything that had happened, but there was a reason why he wore the mask and visor most of the time, and he knew that if he had been against any higher up Talon Agents, he might have been recognised.

“Jack Morrison…”

“It has been a long time since anyone has called me that,” Jack said quietly. “I buried that name, and the man that I was with Zurich.”

“As did I, when I let my family fall…” Hanzo’s voice was even quieter, but within the small prison, there was no escaping each other, or their words.

“Then my ‘thank you’ stands,” Jack told him, slowly pushing himself back against the wall as he realised that he wasn’t going to be able to hold himself up much longer. Even that much exhausted him, and when he reached the wall, he sank against it, letting his head fall back as a chuckle bubbled up. “Although considering what they will do when they return and find me alive, or worse if they work out who I am, you probably shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Only…” Hanzo said, the hesitant tone making Jack open eyes that he couldn’t remember shutting to look at him, startled to find Hanzo crouched in front of him. “If we let them.”

“But…”

“I could not escape alone, and nor could you,” Hanzo looked reluctant admitting as much, the Shimada pride shining through for a moment before he shook his head and instead held out his unfettered hand in invitation. “But, together…”

In the past. In a different lifetime, Jack would never even have considered taking that hand.

Soldier 76 didn’t hesitate, clasping Hanzo’s hand weakly.

“…we will give them hell.”


End file.
